


Sailor's Son

by 1stLieutenantTwitchy



Category: Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Pirates, daily ship life, shameless wish fulfillment and fluff, stephen adopts a smol child, stephen with kids
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2018-09-21 22:13:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9569051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1stLieutenantTwitchy/pseuds/1stLieutenantTwitchy
Summary: In which my OC is a pirate, Stephen adopts a smol child, and Jack is slightly confused. Because Stephen with kids is cute, and Stephen with emotionally traumatized kids is even better.Double-posted on Fanfiction.net





	1. Chapter 1

Seagulls shrieked in Lucas’ ears, and the sun’s light glared in his eyes. A soldier gripped him by his shirt collar and dragged him to the docs, away from the blacksmith. Lucas had woken up on the floor in the hot, dry building with a bandage on his arm and a searing pain on his skin. Branded. He had been dragged to his feet and forced through the shipyard, in too much misery to fight back.

Tears streaked his face and even more pricked behind his eyes, but he refused to make a sound. Despite all that had happened, he still had his pride, and he wouldn’t whimper for anyone’s enjoyment.

The ground shifted under him. He stumbled and tripped over his own feet, making his chains clank together. The longer he was on land, the more he hated it. He hated everyone on it. The soldier dragged him upright and said something to him in a strange accent. If he concentrated, Lucas might be able to understand him, but he couldn’t gather the strength to focus. He was going to pass out again.

They reached the water, and Lucas found himself in the looming shadow of a tallship. He blinked up at the masts rising up to meet the clouds and squinted in the late morning sun. The soldier shoved him towards the ramp leading up to the deck. He was being put on another ship. His heart quickened.

 _“¡No!_ ” He pulled back. _“¡No pienso ir!_ ”

The soldier grumbled and dragged him along, forcing him up the wooden walkway. Lucas’s arm throbbed, and he grimaced in pain. It took everything he had not to start crying.

They arrived on deck, immersed into the bustling activity of getting a ship ready for launch. Sailors clung to the rigging, adjusting the sails, men toted supplies from one end of the ship to the other, and pipes and yelling filled the air. This, at least, was somewhat familiar, though perhaps on a larger scale than Lucas remembered. The pipes, however, were new. They pierced through the air and made his ears throb with their shrill whining.

The soldier gripped Lucas’s collar tighter and shouted for someone. Lucas knew that word: captain.

A large sailor with golden hair and a ridiculous black hat was standing near the stairs to the quarterdeck, discussing something with a carpenter. He finished speaking, and the carpenter scurried away. He walked over to Lucas and the soldier holding him, straightening the front of his coat and raising his eyebrows in expectation. His hair was long and tied back in a low ponytail. His uniform, different from any Lucas had seen, was a dark blue and sported two golden epaulettes on either shoulder. Though not fat, he was quite heavy, and looked as though he could win any fight through size and sheer force of will. This must be the captain.

He and the soldier talked in hushed tones, casting quick glances down at Lucas and nodding quickly. Lucas covered his arm with his hand and stared at them without emotion. He forced back sobs and blinked the tears out of his eyes. He didn’t know what they were saying. He didn’t _want_ to know what they were saying. But he wouldn’t let them see him cry.

The captain turned to him. He said something - Lucas guessed, _what is your name?_ \- and waited expectantly for an answer. Lucas didn’t give him one. He bared his teeth and growled.

The captain raised and eyebrow and looked back to the soldier. They said a few more words, then the captain called another man over, one with a scarlet coat like the soldier’s. Lucas was handed over and ushered across the deck. He glanced over his shoulder at the captain and the soldier, but they were no longer talking to each other. The soldier had turned away, and the captain was already set on another task, giving orders and making gestures with his arms.

The man nudged Lucas from behind. He was guided to the companionway stairs, and his heartbeat quickened. They were pressing him. He was really going back to sea. He forced air into his chest and fought back his tears. Biting his lip, he stepped down into the darkness once again.

 

* * *

 

They kept him in the brig until the ship had pulled out of port. A few other men had joined him down below, no doubt more victims of the press. They sat in silence, their leg irons clanking when they shifted in place. Lucas pressed himself to the side of the ship, putting as much space as possible between them and taking refuge in the wooden braces poking into his back.

The pitch and roll of the ship was familiar to him, a welcome comfort after the rigidity of land. The rhythm of it hardly affected him at all, unlike the other prisoners. They groaned and writhed with seasickness, and Lucas retreated even further from them. He sneered. Landmen.

He could tell when they had moved out of shallow water and into open ocean. He knew the sounds of a ship like the workings of his own mind, even if he didn’t understand the language. He longed to be above deck, the salt air sweeping across his face, listening to the sails snap as they filled with wind. Lucas drew his knees to his chest. He’d spent too long in the dark. He wondered if he’d ever be let in the sun again. He wondered if he was turning into an animal.

When they were far enough out to sea, another red-uniformed man came below to undo the pressed men’s leg irons and lead them up on deck. Lucas longed to be in the fresh air once again, but he still shrunk away from the marine when he was approached. Any human form was repulsive to him, even one who was lifting him out of this dark hole.

On deck, the ship was alive with activity, the captain testing out the cut of the sails while the rest of the crew scurried and worked in every space available. The lubbers filed up the ladder and were promptly ordered to work, each given jobs according to their skills, or lack thereof. Someone grabbed Lucas by his shirt and shoved him into a mess of men scrubbing the deck with holystones. He was shoved to his knees, and it was made clear to him that he should start scraping. The men gave him sidelong glances, but he scowled at them until they stopped. His chest was tight with fury, and he’d bite the fingers off anyone who so much as breathed on his neck.

He gripped the stone and forced it across the deck, gritting his teeth to keep from crying. His arm burned, and the coarse rock chafed his hands, but he refused to give in to his tears. He wasn’t weak, not like others, not like they believed him to be.

He was no stranger to this chore, or his virtual uselessness when faced with it. He was slow, ineffective, and he tired out faster than the other men, but officers paced the deck, casting their scrutinizing gazes over him, and he knew he couldn’t stop. His back ached, and his shoulders were tied into knots. He dug his fingers in and choked back frustrated screams, but he continued working.

At seven bells, the crew was called to muster. Everything was whisked away, and the crew lined up with the thunderous roar of feet on wood, Lucas was shoved into line with the rest of them, so close to the men on either side that their elbows touched his shoulders. He gripped his branded arm and stared straight ahead, summoning all his strength to keep from running.

The captain walked through the lines with his huge hat and spotless uniform, pacing slowly. He clasped his hands behind his back, following the master with the muster-book. The two made their way down the length of the ship, inspecting the men with their critical, aristocratic eyes.

Lucas clenched his jaw and forced himself to swallow. The captain was coming closer, and soon he’d have to look him in the eye. Lucas didn’t want to look at him; he didn’t want to be anywhere near him. His muscles twitched and shuddered, and he fought to keep his breath under control. He hated the man more with every step he took.

The master and the captain stood in front of him, staring him down. The master said something, words Lucas didn’t understand, but he managed to catch one: pirate. He narrowed his eyes at them. The captain’s expression beared down on him like he was expecting something, a word or explanation. Well, he could wait all he wanted; Lucas wouldn’t be able to speak the language if he tried.

A sailor nudged him on the shoulder, and he flinched away at the touch. He whipped his head around, glaring and tightening his hands into fists. The sailor made a small gesture, raising his knuckles to his forehead and jerked his head toward the captain. Lucas glanced back and forth between them. His eyes fixed on the captain, and he slowly raised his hand to match the sailor.

That seemed to be what he was looking for. He and the master moved along, stepping through till the end of the line. Lucas glared after them, wondering what kind of significance that gesture carried.

He was jolted out of his thoughts by a shrill blasting of pipes by the quarterdeck, and he pressed his hands over his ears to block the sound. All hands rushed by him, thundering past down the forecastle stairs. Multiple people shoved him out of the way, and he stumbled to regain his balance. He looked wildly about in panic; it seemed everyone but him knew what was going on. His heart squeezed tighter. Was that the call to man the guns? Would they have to start fighting soon? He backed away. No. Not a battle.

Someone yelled nonsense behind him. He let it blend into the background noise. Did he leave one nightmarish Hell only to be transported to an identical scene of wooden walls and violence? His breath shuddered.

The shouting grew more urgent. Lucas turned around and saw one of the officers (with a hat that was equally outrageous as the captain’s) waving to the forecastle hatchway. With a pointed glare, Lucas scrambled down into the darkness.

There was no battle. It was just the crew being summoned for lunch.

Lucas picked his way through the crowded mess, painstakingly avoiding making physical contact with the men crowded on benches and sitting on the floor. He was exposed in such close quarters, with eyes on his back, his chest, his arm. His brand throbbed in the heat, and sweat trickled down the back of his neck. There wasn’t a single empty spot for him to hide. He’d have to squeeze into whatever space he could find. Gripping his bowl tighter, he crept to the back, sitting on the deck next to a seaman on a stool. A seaman with horrible, yellow teeth.

The powder boy next to him, a dirty child no older than twelve, hardly gave him a second glance, but Lucas’s chest tightened and he drew his legs in as close as possible. He couldn’t put enough distance between him and the people sitting near him.

What he really had concern himself with was the proximity of the seated sailor. As Lucas inhaled his food, the man never ceased making noise, shouting unintelligibly in a constant, unwavering stream. He reeked of tar and body odor, and every few seconds, the air was punctuated by an awful, hacking cough, always at sporadic intervals.

Lucas’s body grew rigid, and he coiled tighter in his shadowed corner. The sailor’s leg jerked against him again and again, smacking his knee and making his whole body jolt. His knuckles grew white around his fork, and  a low growl rumbled from his throat. Just one more offense, one more hack, or shove, or any other kind of movement, and he’d snap. He fought to keep himself from shaking and glared at the sailor. One more, just one more…

The seaman let loose a barking guffaw, swinging his cup of grog in merriment. His arm shot back and hit Lucas square in the shoulder.

Lucas snapped.

He screamed in rage and launched himself forward. He tackled the man and drove his fork into his thigh. _“¡No me_ toques _!”_

The cup clattered to the deck and the sailor howled in pain. The rest of the crew sprung into action, and they all latched onto Lucas, prying him away. Hands on his arms, his legs, around his waist, pulling him backward. He couldn’t fight back. He squirmed and kicked, but they held on too tight.

 _“¡Suéltame!_ ”

Everyone was shouting; there was too much noise. Lucas wanted to take on them all, every last sailor and marine on this ship, just to taste their blood and make them shriek in pain. He wanted to bite back and make them regret they’d ever pressed him into their wretched navy.

Someone’s hand closed tighter over his brand. He yelped and went rigid, and tears stung his eyes. He screamed through his teeth and lashed out with his legs.

The shouting quieted. The crowd parted to make way for an officer in a flat-topped hat, followed by two marines. The bosun. Lucas writhed against the hands that held him, to little effect. The silence of the hall pressed around him, and he was suffocated with the vulnerability that came with it. The bosun stared straight through him, and all hands craned their necks for a look at the confrontation. Even the man Lucas stabbed had stopped moaning to listen to what would happen next.

The bosun barked at Lucas, demanding an answer, but Lucas kept his mouth shut. Tears dripped off his face and his lip quivered, and he knew he was about to die. The bosun screamed at him, and he flinched away. The other men spoke for him. He still didn’t understand what they were saying. His chest rose and fell as he gritted his teeth and prepared to be shot by one of the marines, praying it would be over quickly.

The bosun gave Lucas one last look, then turned his back  and made his way through the crowd of sailors. The marines came forward, one on either side, and the men handed Lucas over. Lucas was gripped by the arms and led out of the mess hall and through the ship. He was thrown down the dark entrance of the brig with cold, heavy irons around his wrists and ankles.

He was left alone, save for a single marine standing guard, staring straight ahead with his gun at attention. Lucas drew his knees to his chest and linked his arms around his legs. He was in the dark again, a prisoner in this floating hell.

Alone. Alone and forgotten. 


	2. Chapter 2

Stephen stood on the deck, his back warm in the midday sun, his hands clammy from being clasped in front of him. He stood next to one of the ship’s guns, it having been rolled out for the occasion, and faced the lines of marines arranged below the quarterdeck. Two men stood just in front of the gun, holding a small boy between them. The child, no older than six or seven, shivered where he stood, shoulders hunched, his dark eyes casting murderous glances at the men crowding around. He clasped a hand to a bandaged arm and turned it away from prying eyes.

The entire company had been gathered, and likewise, they stood facing the quarterdeck, waiting for the captain to speak. It was Tuesday, the day all men chained in the brig received their awaited punishment. Being only a week into their cruise, and Jack holding no special preference for the cat, it was unusual to need such disciplining. Fortunately, there had been no cases of drunkenness (past the first days out of port), insubordination, or thievery that usually showed up. There was only one prisoner today: the pirate child Stephen had been hearing so much about.

He’d treated a sailor for a stab wound a few days before, a constant stream of stories filtering into sickbay of some half-wild creature who’d stabbed Tobias Kipling. Kipling’s injuries were minor, of course, hardly warranting such gossip, but things were always exaggerated in close quarters. The infant child standing in front of Stephen, feverish and jumpy, was not the ruthless animal the he’d been described as. Aggressive though he was, he looked hardly strong enough to stand.

Jack stood on the quarterdeck with his officers, the Articles of War open in his hands. Stephen shot him a pointed look, raising an eyebrow in stark disapproval. If Jack noticed, he didn’t let it show.  He looked up and called out in a booming voice trained to be heard over the roar of cannon fire.

“Ship’s Boy John Smith, you are hereby charged with stabbing fellow crewmate Tobias Kipling in malicious action. Smith, have you anything to say in your defence?”

The ship’s crew turned their collective eyes to the child. He glared at the captain, eyes hard with fear and anger, his breath rasping in his chest. Stephen noticed a rigidity to his jaw, and saw his hand clench tighter over his arm. The boy uttered no words, standing in silence and casting suspicious glances at the men who shouldered him on either side. Jack stared him down, awaiting the answer, but didn’t press further when he didn’t receive one. His gaze shifted to the masses. 

“Does anyone wish to speak in his defense?”

The men stared straight ahead, the sun shining off the sweat on their hatless foreheads, and said nothing. There was a dry cough somewhere in the back, adding to the uncomfortable atmosphere. Stephen had nothing to say; he had not been there when the offending incident had occurred, and he knew too little of the story to make an objective statement. Even still, as he looked upon the quaking boy, he wished he could offer some sort of contribution, something that would lessen judgment and the impending sentence. A child so small shouldn’t even be facing such a punishment, but naval laws being what they were, no offender, regardless of size, age, or frailty, was safe from the cat. Or in this case, the cane.

“‘Article 35,’” Jack continued. “‘All other crimes not capital committed by any person or persons in the fleet, which are not mentioned in this act, or for which no punishment is hereby directed to be inflicted, shall be punished by the laws and customs in such cases used at sea.’ Mr. Hollar,” Jack looked down at the bosun, who stood at the ready with a wooden cane. “Two dozen lashes.”

The drummer rolled out his beat as the captain of the marines called his men to attention, and the boy was gripped by the shoulders and brought in front of the cannon. His lip trembled, and he looked as though he might cry, but his face pinched into an image of childish anger and determination, and no tears fell. His bound arms were stretched out along the cast iron and tied into place, leaving him bent over with his bottom prone. He buried the side of his face in his arm and closed his eyes. 

Stephen watched as Mr. Hollar drew back his arm and switched the boy across his posteriors. The cane made a resounding thwack, and the boy flinched, his breath hissing in a pained gasp, but he made no other noise.

“One,” was the solemn call.

The cane struck again, and the boy bent his head lower. His hands shook from balling them so tightly into fists, his knuckles turned bone white. Stephen kept close watch, looking for signs of unconsciousness. Two dozen lashes was a brutal, yet standard, punishment in the navy, and even if the sentence for a boy was lesser than the traditional flogging, the child’s chances of staying conscious dwindled with every strike of the cane.

Every strike made the boy tremble a bit more, the strain of holding back his cries making his body shake like a victim of high fever. He kept his head tucked to the side, hiding his face from the rest of the world. As Stephen watched, the boy’s eyes slid upwards until his gaze locked with the physician’s. Those dark eyes glared at Stephen, filled with so much hate and rage and pain, for a moment he could not believe what stood before him could possibly be one so young. But then came another blow, and those eyes were squeezed shut, and did not open again for the remainder of the punishment.

Stephen watched Mr. Hollar stand aside as the boy was untied, surprised he had lasted the entire sentence. The child let himself be hoisted to his feet, all the fight drained out of him, his head lolling to the side. He blinked slowly and stared unfocused into space. 

Stephen saw his knees buckle before the men holding him, and stepped forward to catch him as he fell toward the deck. He went limp in Stephen’s hands.

The doctor looked up at the other sailors. “Kindly take this boy to sick bay. I will attend to him there.”

The child was lifted up and carried away as the bosun’s pipes dismissed the hands. A low rumble erupted from the men as they moved back to their stations and the somber mood dissolved. Stephen straightened to his feet, squinting up at the quarterdeck. Jack stood just the same as he had before, authoritative and unflinching, holding his sacred Articles of War tucked under his arm. He stared down at his crew, but somehow managed to avoid making eye contact with Stephen or addressing the latter’s pointed frown. 

Stephen let out a slow breath through his nose, then followed the sailors and the boy down to sickbay.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Lucas was awakened by a persistent sharpness in his backside, a throbbing pain that shot  through his bottom and down his legs. He lay sprawled out on his stomach, his face squashed into a pillow, arms pinned under his chin. A haze lingered around his head like a cloud of thick smoke, giving him the impression of rising out of water. He was aware of movement around his cot, bodies filing past, and footsteps disappearing further into the ship. Grimacing, he blinked open his eyes.

He was in a closed-off section below decks, the only light coming from lanterns swaying from the beams with the ship’s roll. The air was stale and stuffy. As Lucas’ vision sharpened, he noticed a man standing over him. He was small and bony, with a pale face and even paler eyes. He looked at Lucas over a pair of spectacles perched at the end of his nose. His clothes were in disarray, and his scrawny appearance combined with his black coat made him the least seaman-like person Lucas had ever met.

He started and tried to sit up. Pain shot through his legs, and he choked back a startled cry.

“Try to limit unnecessary movement,” the man said. Lucas widened his eyes. “You don’t have any serious injuries, but I imagine you’re quite bruised.”

Lucas’ throat constricted like he was being strangled. He understood. He understood the man’s words. Whoever this man was, or however he got here, he spoke Lucas’ language.

He stared in disbelief as his lip started to quiver. Tears blurred his vision, and he bowed his head, covering his face with his arms, and began to sob.

“ _¿Que pasó?_ ” the man asked.

Lucas couldn’t answer. He gasped for breath, shoulders shaking, his face soaked from crying. He sniffed and tried to get himself under control.

“You speak Spanish?” he managed, head still buried in his arms.

The man tilted his head, his forehead pinched in academic concern. “Yes. How long has it been since you’ve heard someone speak your own language?”

Lucas hiccupped and wiped his nose on his sleeve. There were still sobs in his chest aching to escape, but he forced them down, afraid to break down entirely in front of a stranger.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t remember.” He looked up, barely able to see through his tears. “Who are you?”

“My name is Doctor Esteban Maturin, and I’m the physician on this ship. You’ve been flogged, and you were unconscious for about a minute and a half. You’re in my sickbay. You’re safe here.”

Lucas moved to smear the tears away from his face, but a cough rose up in his throat and rattled in his lungs. He tensed, momentarily forgetting about his brand and pressing his forehead against his arm. He yelped, making him cough more. The fit soon passed, though his breathing still rasped somewhere deep in his chest. The doctor didn’t move from his spot by his side.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

Lucas shifted his eyes up and scowled.  “ _¿Qué_?”

“Your arm. Does it hurt?”

Lucas glanced at his arm, a hand clasped over his brand. “No.”

“You’re lying.”

He shot his head up. What was this, exactly? Not kindness, not really. Kindness was as much a stranger to him as solid land, but he’d know it immediately if he saw it. Even still, it was so dissimilar to the treatment he’d received so far on this ship, the treatment he’d grown used to. The doctor waited expectantly, not saying a word, and held out his hand. Lucas fought to keep his breath even, but it didn’t do any good. He uncovered his brand and slowly gave his arm to the doctor. The man took it and pulled over a chair, unwrapping the days-old bandage and laying it aside.

“Did this happen right before you came aboard?”

The burn stung in the open air, looking red and inflamed, a raised letter P surrounded by a circle of raw, irritated skin. Lucas clamped his teeth over his lower lip and nodded. The doctor turned his wrist over, poking and prodding with measured carefulness.

“And no one’s looked at this since?”  
He shook his head. The doctor reached behind his chair and produced some sort of salve from his kit on the floor.

“It’s started to fester. Nothing serious as yet, but it should have been attended to days ago. Hold still, this will sting.”

He rubbed the salve on the brand, and Lucas inhaled sharply. His face crumpled, and he turned his head away, his hand curling into a fist. The back of his eyes burned, and he realized more tears had made their way down his cheeks. The doctor finished with the salve and began re-wrapping Lucas’ arm with a clean bandage. Lucas blinked his eyes open and watched the doctor work. He was efficient, but surprisingly gentle.

“Why am I here?” Lucas asked.

“It _is_ customary for sailors to be brought down to sickbay after being flogged. And after 3 days in the brig, you’ve developed quite a nasty cough.”

A nasty cough? Lucas snorted; Kipling’s was worse.

The doctor put a hand on Lucas’ forehead to check his temperature, and the boy wrinkled his nose at the touch.

“I wish to keep you under close watch until after this fever passes.”

He stood and walked over to his desk a few feet away, picking up one of the many bottles and pouring a small amount of the liquid inside into a cup. He walked back and held it out. “Here - roll onto your side and take this. It should help to calm your lungs.”

Lucas glances skeptically from the doctor to the cup of alien medicine, but he did as he was told and shifted his weight off his stomach. His backside ached in protest, but he clenched his jaw and took the cup, holding the vile-smelling liquid to his lips. His stomach turned in revulsion, and made a face.  
“ _Drink it._ ”

Wincing and already regretting his decision, Lucas tipped his head back and tried to swallow the medicine in a single gulp. He gagged as it was halfway down and had to swallow a second time, pinching his face and shaking his head. It moved like tar down into his stomach. He stuck out his tongue and made exaggerated dry heaving noises.

“Thank you.” The doctor took the cup back. “You may lie back down now.”

He walked over to his desk and began putting things back in order, shuffling papers, replacing jars on their shelf, picking up some grotesque thing in a jar and examining it in the faint lantern light. Lucas settled back down on his stomach and watched in puzzlement. He’d never seen anything so strange before. The doctor himself, Don Esteban, Lucas supposed he should call him, was quite the mystery as well.

“They call you Wolf, you know,” the doctor said after a few moments of silence. “You’re in the muster books as a certain John Smith, but the men who saw you go after Kipling have taken to calling you Wolf. Some sort of warning to the others, I suppose.”

Lucas frowned, his ignorance of the English language showing once again. “What’s that mean?”

“What, wolf?” Esteban glanced up over his spectacles. “ _Lobo_ . You made quite the first impression, _mi querido_.”

They’d given him an actual name? Lucas didn’t care what they called him, or even the reasons for doing so, he was surprised they actually _named_ him. He supposed it was better than what he was called on the last ship: _Chien Espagnol._

“Not to worry,” Esteban continued. “The man you stabbed recovered quickly. It was a small wound, mostly superficial, and he was out of sickbay the day before yesterday.” He blinked, turning back to look at Lucas. “Why _did_ you stab that man?”

Lucas frowned, remembering his first day aboard. The events in the mess hall had become blurred and confused to him, as if it were part of his imagination, and he still didn’t quite believe he’d actually stabbed someone - with a fork, no less. But he did remembered all the chaos and noise, the scores of bodies crowded together, the dirty powder boy and the disgusting sailor with the rotten teeth. He narrowed his eyes.

“He touched me. And his teeth were crooked.”

The doctor paused his rifling, taking a moment to consider Lucas’ logic. He raised his eyebrows and nodded to the side, deeming it sound, and resumed his work. “I suppose I can’t very well argue with that.”

 

* * *

 

Stephen sat in Jack's great room, across from the captain's desk, watching him examine the numerous maps and charts in front of him. Jack squinted at the paper, a magnifying glass to his eye.

"It's been two days, Stephen," he said without looking up. "When are you going to clear that boy for work?"

"Not until I feel better about that cough. His fever has left him, but I'm still not confident he's up to being put on regular duties. He's only child, not like your regular able-bodied seaman; his health should be taken more seriously than an adult member of this crew. I'd like one or two more days, at least."

“I suppose a few days away from the rest of the men would put their minds at ease.” Jack shuffled some papers across his desk. “Why he ever stabbed that sailor is beyond me.”

Stephen tilted his head to the side. He’d come to make his report on the boy, and he trying not to let his displeasure show. He’d made his opinion on flogging perfectly clear in the past, and now was not the place to repeat it.

“The man would not leave the poor boy alone, and was far too close to let anyone feel comfortable. Wolf simply felt trapped, like an animal responding to a belligerent cornering it into danger. The response was nothing unnatural, if anything, entirely predictable. Furthermore, the man had hideous oral hygiene.”

Jack put down his pen. “Stephen, don’t tell me you agree the boy.”

“He had an entirely valid argument! That seaman’s teeth are most offensive.”

Jack put a hand to his mouth then dropped it back to the desk. “He is a good sailor and you can't just do things like that! Teeth have nothing to do with it!"

“I beg to differ. A person can tell a great deal about another from the state of their teeth. For example, this man’s utter disregard for cleanliness displayed his willingness to not only ignore his own comfort, but the comfort of others.”

“Still, that is no cause for violence aboard my ship."

“But it is an explanation.”

Jack shook his head and turned to the window. “I hate to interrupt your lovely musings, doctor, but were you going to ask me something?”

“Ah.” Stephen crossed one leg over the other and folded his hands in his lap. “I’m thinking of taking on an assistant.”

Jack quirked an eyebrow. “You have an assistant.”

“A surgeon’s mate, yes, but no loblolly boy. I simply desire an extra body to keep the surgery clean and look after patients.”

“Who did you have in mind?”

Stephen looked purposefully over his spectacles. “The boy.”

Jack laid his hands on his desk chuckled mirthlessly. He stood, chair scraping behind him, and paced across the room, ducking his head to avoid the ceiling’s beams. He shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

Stephen uncrossed his legs. “For what reason? I see no harm-”

“‘No harm?’” Jack turned to face his friend, a hand on his jaw. “He stabbed a man - a member of my crew - simply for touching his arm! I can’t have someone so erratic put in charge of sick and wounded.”

“He’s more of a danger to the men where he is now than in sick bay. If he acts this poorly in response to minor offences, imagine how disastrous the consequences will be if he’s forced to continue living in such close quarters. With me, he’d be isolated from the other men, and under my direct care.”

Jack threw his hands in front of him. “Stephen, he’s a pirate!”

“He’s just a boy, Jack!” Stephen exclaimed, jumping from his chair. His voice bounced off the cabin’s walls and hung in the resulting silence. Jack blinked at him in surprise, but made no other reaction. Stephen stared him down, waiting for his own pulse to return to its natural rhythm.

“He’s just a boy,” he continued. “And he’s scared, and lost, and I’m afraid in very bad company.”

Jack stared at him, frowning slowly. “What makes you think he’ll be any better with you than he is now?”

“He’ll be given time to himself, and a certain amount of privacy, both of which would be highly beneficial to him and those around him. In a secluded environment, I could observe his behavior and perhaps learn more about him, why he acts the way he does.”  
“He’s not one of your bugs. I don’t think he’d take kindly to being put under a microscope.”

“I only wish to help him. Currently, the only comforts he has are his brand and the unforgiving life at sea. You remember Mr. Hollom.”

Jack sighed and sank back into his chair. He pinched the bridge of his nose and frowned, a doleful quiet having settled about the room.

“Where did he come from?” Stephen asked.

Jack heaved a sigh, his broad shoulders slouching. “He was part of a crew of corsairs captured in the Mediterranean. The entire company was to be tried for piracy, most likely strung up as a result. Set an example and all that. Wolf is so small...the Commissioner of Prisoners took pity on him and handed him over to me as an pressed ship’s boy. A hushed matter of business. Entirely illegal.”

“French privateers? I thought they were taken as prisoners of war?”

Jack shook his head. “Not all the time.”

“The commissioner had the boy branded.”

“Yes, he did tell me that.”

Silence resided over the two once more, the lull in conversation stretching into a respite. Stephen pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose. “He’s Spanish you know.”

Jack looked up. “Really?”

“That’s why he doesn’t speak. He can’t understand a word anyone’s saying.”

Jack straightened and put his arm down. “I can’t say I’m surprised. He certainly looks Spanish, but what was he doing on a French ship?”  
“I don’t believe he was there of his own volition. His circumstances are unclear, and he won’t tell me anything about what happened to him. I suspect he is a victim in this whole mess, a certain variable that went unaccounted for. Were I to spend more time with him, perhaps I would gather further information.”

Stephen waited for Jack to respond, inwardly hoping he’d take the offered bait. Jack squinted to himself, staring through a stack of astronomy books. His eyes flicked back to Stephen.

“The crew would be safe from him, you say?”

Stephen allowed himself a shadow of a smile. He nodded. Jack drummed his fingers on the desk, still thinking. He gave a defeated sigh and leaned back in his chair, pulling a piece of paper out from underneath a pile of maps and charts.

“I shall inform Mr. Allen to change the muster books.”

Stephen couldn’t help himself; a smile stretched itself wide across his face, and he clasped his hands together tightly in his lap. “Thank you, Jack-”

“Yes, yes.” Jack gave an unamused smile and glanced up at the ceiling. Stephen knew the annoyance was directed at Jack himself for giving in, and he laughed inwardly at the captain’s childish ways.

He stood, ready to excuse himself since Jack obviously meant to preoccupy himself with other matters. Just because he had shown himself to be lenient did not mean he no longer had control over his ship. Naval men could be such silly creatures.

“Would you be receptive to play this evening? It’s been far too long since we’ve done Baccherini.”

Jack glanced up, pencil in hand. “Of course, doctor. I am never one to refuse Baccherini.”

Stephen nodded and turned toward the door to leave.

“I suppose I don’t have to tell you what will happen if your boy strays out of line?”

Stephen paused long enough before the doorway to give his response. “I know my duties, Jack.”

He opened the door and excused himself from the room. 


	4. Chapter 4

“How much English do you know?”

Lucas shifted his weight back and forth on the cot, testing the soreness in his bottom, his bare feet dangling over the edge, and a bowl balanced in his lap. After four days, it wasn’t so bad anymore, so long as he refrained from any sudden movements and didn’t sit down so hard. At least he could walk without being so stiff he could hardly move. Of course, he hadn’t left sickbay to do any actual walking around the ship, but just having the ability to be out and about made him feel less like the bird Don Esteban kept in a cage hanging from the beams above. He shrugged at the Doctor’s question and turned his attention back to his breakfast.

“Fucking son of a bitch,” he said, shoveling a spoonful of porridge in his mouth. The words had barely finished forming when Don Esteban froze at his desk and turned slowly, pen stuck in his hand, spectacles perched at the end of his nose, and his stone-cold gaze fixed hard enough on Lucas to turn his bones to ice.

“ _Excuse me_.”

Lucas swallowed with a hard gulp. He turned his eyes away, letting them roam anywhere else but the terrifying man in front of him, shrinking into his cot. “You asked…” With the realization of his mistake came the expectation of some form of reprimand, and he held his breath in anticipation. The doctor pressed his mouth into a thin line and tapped his pen on the paper, blinking off into space.

“I expect you know a great deal of English obscenities. However, I wish to hear none of them, or any obscenities at all, English or otherwise. I have lived the better part of the last few years in the company of sailors and various members of regretful standing. I will not tolerate the use of vulgar language by a child in my own sickbay. Am I understood?”

Perhaps, Lucas thought, it would be better not to mention the fact he could say those words in French too, in addition to a dozen others that would likely set his own tongue on fire. Instead, he simply nodded.

“Splendid. Now, are there any _other_ words you know?”

Lucas screwed up the side of his face in concentration. This was the first time he’d spent any significant time around native English speakers, or been exposed to a great amount of English at all. Still, he’d picked up a few things, pieces of conversations heard from below decks or shouted from one ship to another.

“Just the mirror words,” he said. “ _DOC_ -tor, _CAP_ -tain, a- _MER_ -ican.”

_Pirate_ , he thought, but he bit it back before it could leave his mouth. He turned his attention back to the bowl in his lap, frowning. He preferred to be left alone to eat, without so many interruptions. Don Esteban already made him eat painfully slow, instructing him how long to chew, and when to swallow, the least the man could do was give him peace.

“Very well, then.” The doctor braced his hands against his knees and shoved himself to his feet, ducking his head to avoid the low-hanging beams. “We start from the beginning. What is that?”

He pointed to the spoon in Lucas’s hand. Lucas turned it over, frowning. “ _Cuchara_.”

“Spoon,” Stephen said pointedly, still gesturing. “Go on, repeat it.”

Lucas narrowed his eyes. “Spoooon…”

“Yes, and this is a bowl. Say it back.”

“Bowl.”

“And this?” Pointing again to the spoon.

“Spoon.”

Don Esteban repeated the exercise with half a dozen objects, making Lucas repeat each word he’d learned after another in a long chain. He pointed again to the bowl. “Do you remember what this is?”

Lucas glared down at the bowl, now empty. He’d said the English word at least four times now, but all that came to him was a blank. Jaw clenching, he frowned, lips pressing into a firm line. “No.”

If the doctor noticed Lucas’s failure, he didn’t give any indication of disappointment, instead gesturing for Lucas to come to his desk.

“As my loblolly boy, you will be expected to know the location of certain medicines and instruments in my possession.”

Lucas cocked his head to one side. “Lob…lolly?”

“Loblolly boy, yes. Not quite a full-rated assistant, but a necessary position none the less. It is quite time your started to earn your keep.”

Confusion made Lucas blink stupidly, but Don Esteban continued speaking. “Your main tasks will be to attend to the patients in sickbay. I will make my rounds same as before, but your responsibility lies in taking them their meals, keeping this space orderly, and taking stock of our stores. I know you do not care for the other men-” Upon noticing his scowl. “-but I assure you they will not be the same type of men with whom you’ve interactions since coming aboard. They will do you no harm.”

“Kipling?”

“Has returned to his duties. I don’t expect the two of you need meet again in the future.”

At least there was that. The main reason Lucas hadn’t wandered through the ship this past week was fear of running into the loathsome seaman, or any of the others from the mess deck, for that matter. There was still the possibility of a chance encounter with the others, but if the doctor said Kipling wouldn’t come down here, then Lucas supposed he could believe him.

“I will take this moment to reiterate you are supposed to be helping these men, and proving assistance to me or my surgeon’s mate. If you bring harm to any of them, I will not hesitate to inform the captain.”

Nodding. Lucas had heard this before.

“Good then. We shall move on to more constructive matters. This part of the ship we are in now, it is my personal cabin, as you are well aware, situated at the back, or the stern, rather. Sickbay resides at the far opposite, the stem. Stem and stern.” He made gestures with his arms indicating where each was as he said the words in English. “Can you repeat that?”

Lucas copied the gestures. “Stem and stern.”

“Very good. To the left of the sickbay, through a door, is the dispensary, where my stores and other medical supplies are kept. Until you are instructed on basic herbs and what goes where, you are not to touch anything or enter unchaperoned, am I understood? Splendid. Now, you may continue to address me however you wish, but my assistant is called Mr. Higgins on this ship, and that is what you must use as well.”

Don Esteban stood again, leaving Lucas in stupefied bewilderment, and returned with a heavy leather roll. Setting it on the already covered desk surface, he spread it out to its full length to reveal the dozens of odd instruments tucked inside. Peculiar-looking knives, picks, small rods with hooked bits of metal at the end, serrated saws, scissors, Lucas had never seen such an assortment of tools, nor could he imagine their purpose. They all looked well-used, despite their excellent shape. Not a single speck of rust or tarnish on any of them.

“The tools of my trade,” said the doctor. “Instruments of surgery. These are used during battle in an attempt to piece together men torn apart by shrapnel or enemy fire, or to treat any injury that might occur otherwise.”

The thought of those hooks and knives being used on his own flesh made Lucas’s stomach writhe, and he shoved it out of his mind with a shake of his head. The doctor selected one of the slender knives from the row and passed it over, holding the point toward himself.

“A scalpel. Have you ever held one before?”

It didn’t feel any different resting in his hand than any other object, but somehow, knowing its purpose generated waves of revulsion from the back of Lucas’s mind.

“I will instruct you in the names of these instruments and the proper method of cleaning them. You will be present before and after surgeries, providing aid to both myself and my assistant, and it is necessary to possess a certain familiarity with these tools.”

The scalpel was taken back, and the instruments were rolled in their case and once again tucked away.

“Now, whatever you may do, any poking about through my desk drawers is strictly forbidden, and even so much as touching one of the drawers will send you straight back to the captain. I will not tolerate the invasion of my private affairs by you or anyone else on this ship. Straight to the captain, ¿Verdad?”

Lucas nodded vigorously. The request wasn’t too out of the ordinary, and it was one that could be quite easily respected. While snooping in the doctor’s desk might sate some curiosity, the books and papers sure to be inside would be of little interest if the snooper lacked the capability of reading, which Lucas indeed did. And besides, the threat of going back to the captain dried up any desire to sneak about this strange man’s cabin.

Satisfied with Lucas’s answer, Don Esteban turned toward the door. “Now that we have covered all the necessities, I believe it is time to make my rounds.”

He strode through the door, and Lucas stared after him, resolved to stay rooted to his spot until the doctor returned. He lifted the spoon in his lap to eye-level and flipped it over in his hand.

“Spoon,” he said, turning the English word over in his mouth. He smiled.

Don Esteban’s head poked back through the doorway. “I am going to sickbay. Are you coming along, or must I carry you?”

Setting down his spoon, Lucas hurried to tuck in his shirt and scampered across the deck to follow the doctor. It was time for his first day on the job.


	5. Chapter 5

During the day, Don Esteban often left Lucas alone. Whether it was out of the business of his own schedule or respect for the boy’s privacy could hardly be said, but it was clear the doctor had a life on this ship outside his strictly medical role. Not that Lucan could much fathom it. A man like that, with as many peculiarities and an…incompatible personality with life at sea, it was a surprise he’d made any connections at all, much less with the entire ship. Nevertheless, connections existed.

They showed in the faces of the men in sickbay as Don Esteban made his rounds, in the way sailors stopped to speak with him as he walked through the ship. Most of all, it showed in their tolerance of Lucas himself. Hardly anyone glanced his way, but no one had asked, or even seemed to care, why he followed the surgeon about like the ship’s cat. They seemed to accept that their doctor, in whatever wisdom they attributed to him, had claimed this wolf-like creature as his own, and believed whole-heartedly in his judgement.

Whatever had influenced their opinion in such a way, Lucas had no idea.

Still, he was grateful for glances of indifference rather than the accustomed animosity.  As he circled about sickbay – he could perform his daily tasks by himself now – he hardly spoke a word beyond the “good morning” Don Esteban told him he must say to every patient. The men responded in turn with their own morning greetings, which Lucas was only starting to understand.

There were three occupying sickbay today, a broken arm, a fractured rib, and an exceptionally nasty case of seasickness. He’d treated them all with detached politeness, copying what he’d seen from Don Esteban, carrying out his duties with efficiency and little to no distraction.

The seasickness appeared to have improved some since yesterday and gave Lucas a weak smile. Lucas returned it, though his was perhaps just as warbly as the afflicted man’s, and he dropped his eyes as soon as he did it.

Returning to the surgeon’s cabin, he sat on his cot and looked around. The empty space echoed with the silence so characteristic of his days here, despite its smallness. Ambience from daily life on the ship reached here, of course, but it all sounded so far away. Distant. Footsteps pounded above his head, but they could have belonged to ghosts for all he saw of the men behind them. Contact with the crew on his last ship hadn’t been ideal, and he’d gotten used to hiding in dark corners, scurrying from one end of the ship to the other and staying out of sight.

People here didn’t seem to hate him like they had on the French ship. If he wanted, he supposed he’d be free to wander about as he wished. The jars of preserved oddities lined on Don Esteban’s desk held little interest to him compared to the promise of a cool breeze on his face.

Making up his mind, Lucas darted out of the small cabin, out into the ship with his bare feet hardly making a sound against the well-worn boards. Sunlight – bright, pure, unmolested sunlight 0 spilled from the fo’c’sle hatch, making his heart dance forward a beat. At the back of his mind, a fluttering voice told him perhaps he shouldn’t go shirking his duties until he’d looked over Don Esteban’s instruments, but it was like shouting into a gale. He was already scurrying up the stairs.

For a few painful seconds, the light from outside seared his eyes, burning green spots behind his eyelids. He paused, hand gripping the rope, but when he blinked his eyes open, the impossible blue of the sky above him greeted him broadly.

A smile broke across his face, and he ran to the gunwale as soon as the way was clear. He propped his chin against the wood, as it rose past chest-height, so he could peek out at the ocean. Blue, as far as his eyes could make out, past even the curve of the horizon. No birds here, so far away from land. The absence of dark shapes at the edge of his vision gave him some sense of relief, securing the promise that he’d never have to go back to that awful place.

All around him, the ship’s timbers creaked and sighed, and the wind piped a wordless tune through the rigging. With all the activity around him, hardly anyone paid him mind until he tried to scramble up the ratlines. A sailor on his way down made some protest at him, and he hurried back to the deck to stay out from underfoot. The best place, he decided, would be the bowsprit, away from all the activity on deck. Most of all, he wanted to hide from the officers standing on the quarterdeck. The farther from their presence he could get, the more he could relax.

Setting himself in a nook of coiled rope, Lucas leaned his shoulder against the side of the ship and let its shadow cover him like a blanket. He tilted his head up, gaping at the sight of the sails billowing toward him, full of wind. They didn’t spill even the slightest of wind. The captain of this ship, boisterous and large though he may be, certainly knew how to manage a crew. Were all English ships like this? Everything was so uniform and orderly.

Gazing about the ship, an outsider looking into a world of well-established laws and functions, a clear pattern emerged. Everyone had a role. A purpose. The men pulled on a line, or tugged a sail, and the ship responded. Orders were given and carried out without the least bit of hesitation.

Lucas linked his arms around his knees as his eyebrows linked together, eyes squinted against the reflection of the sun against the sails. In a world such as this, with nothing out of place, not a single person out of line, where did he fit in?

The familiar pitch and roll of the ship nearly lulled him into a peaceful sleep, but a high, insistent sound kept his eyes open, and his ears alert. It came from somewhere below, trailing upwards with the late spring breeze. It was music, but none like Lucas had ever experienced before. In the past, he’d only heard gruff work-shanties, or boisterous drinking songs grated out as loud as inebriated voices would allow. This had none of those qualities.

There were two voices, though neither of them was human. One, bright and high, tripped up through the fo’c’sle hatch with such joy and intensity, it made Lucas blink in surprise. That was what had prevented his late-morning slumber on most days. The other, much lower and sonorous, trickled toward his ears like molten resin. Both jumped out to him with an energy like he’d never heard, and he sat up straighter.

No one on deck seemed much affected by this new development beyond one or two exchanged glances, but a few cast a cheap glance over their shoulders. Daily life continued undisturbed. Slowly, Lucas rose to his feet, determined to find the source of this music. Some of the crew gave him odd looks as he crept about on deck, head cocked so he could hear the music spinning through the air. He ducked behind the chicken coop and tried to strain his ears to catch more of the tune.

He could hear it better at his current spot than he could at the bowsprit. Still, it wasn’t clear enough. The clucking next to his head kept interrupting the runs, and he clenched his fists together in frustration. He’d have to go below deck to search for the source. Once of the chickens cooed doubtfully and poked her head out of the coop, prodding Lucas’ hair with her beak. He wrinkled his nose and growled at her until she stopped with a startled squawk.

Fine, then, he’d go back below. Ducking out of the coop’s shadow, he scampered back toward the fo’c’sle hatch and nearly bumped into a sailor who happened to be walking by. He leaped out of the way, but not before the sailor gave a brief shout of surprise and called after him. Lucas ran the rest of the way across the deck and practically dove down the hatch.

Once again, the dimness and musty air from inside the ship surrounded him. The music called out to him, delightfully clearer in this small space below deck. He stood tugging the ends of his sailor’s kerchief as he agonized over whether he should creep closer to it or stay where he was. He couldn’t just _stand_ here, in the way. Still, it was so pretty, so wonderful-sounding, he’d give anything to steal a quiet moment to simply stand and listen.

A sailor lumbered by him, ducking his head to clear the tall beams. “G’mornin’ Wolf-”

Lucas shot out from behind him and ran the rest of the way back to Don Esteban’s quarters, shutting the door after his hasty entry. He hadn’t thought to check If anyone else was here before he sprinted inside, but as he sheepishly peered into the room’s corners, he found himself in complete solitude. The music continued its bright melody, somewhat muted by the closed door, but still persistent. Lucan supposed he should consider himself lucky to hear it at all. And an adventure on deck without incident? He should consider himself very lucky indeed.

One hand over the bandage wrapped around his brand, Lucas hefted the bulky leather roll that housed Don Esteban’s instruments and spread it out on the floor. He began to inspect the surgical tools one by one, holding them up in the relative light and saying their names quietly to himself.

It was better here, he thought, away from everyone else. At least here, sitting on the floor, shut away from as much of the ship as he could be without swimming in the ocean, his heart had the chance to slow to its normal pace.

And there was the music. No one could stop him from nodding his head in time, and it eased the persistent tug in his chest for the outdoors. He could enjoy it for now and inquire Don Esteban about it when the doctor returned.

 .   .   .

 

Arriving back in his quarters following a refreshing Vivaldi duet with Jack, Stephen entered his cabin to find his loblolly boy sitting on the floor with his instruments lying in spread out in a semicircle. The child looked up, brown eyes serious and face expressionless.

“Good morning, Lobito, I trust you’ve managed to keep yourself occupied?”

Wolf replaced the last scalpel in the leather carrier and curled the roll back in on itself. “ _Su instrumentos son limpio.”_

“Can you say their names for me?”

He gave a sigh but spread them out once again without further protest and went down the row of tools identifying each one in a diligent, clear voice. Every couple words, Stephen had to interject with a correct pronunciation and once or twice surrendered the beginning consonants to a forgotten name. On the whole, however, progress was being made. He gave a satisfied nod, and Wolf resumed putting away the tools.

Stephen walked over to his desk and found his latest subject of naturalist study exactly where he had found it, his notes spread somewhat haphazardly underneath the glass jar containing it. The flies buzzed inside with unceasing activity, thanks to their cylindrical imprisonment and the piece of rotting meat on the bottom. The population had already doubled since taking leave of England’s shore, and he was eager to see what would happen in the next few days of unchecked growth.

He glanced at wolf, who had pulled himself up into his cot and sat with his legs hanging over the side, intently watching Stephen’s every move.

“Did it take you all this time to inspect my tools?”

Wolf shook his head. “I walked through sickbay first. I brought them food and emptied their pots just like you showed me.”

“Excellent work, _mi querido,_ you are a much more adept assistant than I often have, and I am grateful for your help.”

At this, Wolf blinked and turned his head curiously, as if what the doctor had said wasn’t exactly what he’d expected. Stephen once again turned to his notes but found himself interrupted by a tiny piping voice beside him.

“I saw the sky today!”

“Oh, did you, now? Did you venture on deck?”

A pause, then a slow, hesitant nod as Wolf’s fingers picked at the hem of his shirt.

“It is quite an amicable day, is it not? Truly wonderful weather for sailing, a most blessed wind. Weather such as this can only be appreciated out of doors, I believe, and it would be a sorrowful waste to spend the entirety of the day below deck. Perhaps we shall take an excursion under the open sky this afternoon and enjoy some fresh air.”

Wolf shook his head with enough vehemence to send his hair flipping from side to side, his miniature pigtail threatening to slap both of his ears. Stephen’s eyebrows shot skyward, but he turned back to his flies without so much as a shrug.

“Or perhaps not. No matter. I will most likely spend the evening with a book on the quarterdeck, if you happen to change your mind.”

Only a few more seconds of heavy-surveillanced peace had gone by, and Wolf was asking what had been that music-like noise earlier in the morning. Abandoning his note for another - hopefully quieter - hour, Stephen moved the jar of flies to a protective corner of his desk.

“That would be the captain and I,” he said. “Weather and duty permitting, we have been known to play a duetto on occasion. Do you enjoy music?”

Wolf said he had never heard anything like that before. “What makes the music?”

“Those are our instruments; I play the ‘cello, and the captain plays the violin. I’ll admit, he’s much more adept at playing than I.” Stephen looked at his small charge as the boy stared with his large, unblinking eyes. “The next time I retreat to play a tune on my ‘cello, I believe I shall take you with me. Would that be something you’d enjoy?”

The seriousness on Wolf’s face lifted by a fraction, and his spine straightened at the prospect of finally getting closer to the music he’d heard. Taking this reaction as something comparable to delight, Stephen ducked his head into his quarters two days later to fetch his Loblolly boy on his way to the captain’s great cabin.

“You have nothing to fear going to this part of the ship,” he said. “As long as you are with me, you will not be questioned.”

Wolf displayed some amount of uneasiness at each encounter with another sailor or marine, but he stayed close to Stephen’s side. He grabbed ahold of the doctor’s coat and didn’t release it until they’d made it past the sentry posted to Jack’s cabin. Once inside, he promptly sat cross-legged on the floor facing Stephen and his ‘cello.

Children always seemed fascinated by musical instruments, partly, Stephen thought, because they were typically discouraged from meddling with them unless under careful instruction. Then, of course, the whole of musical education made the forbidden objects instruments of torture rather than of enjoyment. Wolf, however, contented himself only to look, and kept his hands planted in his lap. He leaned forward to steal a glimpse of the details laid into the wood and how the strings arranged themselves across the bridge. Once the music started, he became even better-behaved. He sat so still, Stephen could forget another person kept him company in the small space.

He did not know how long he had been playing when Jack entered the cabin. Wolf, perhaps hearing the heavy footsteps announcing the captain’s arrival, scrambled closer to the wall and hid himself behind Stephen and the ‘cello. This hardly caused an interruption, so Coreli’s sonata continued until it reached its conclusion.

“Well played, brother,” Jack said from his desk. I see you’ve brought an audience with you.”

Stephen glanced to the said in time to see Wolf use his leg to hide himself. “He heard us playing the other day and expressed curiosity in what it was. I did not realize you would need use of your cabin in the next hour, I did not wish to disturb you.”

“No, no, don’t bother yourself. It will take a great deal for you to disturb me, Stephen.”

With Jack turning to his charts and the boy growing restless, Stephen once again took up his bow and drew another air out of his ‘cello. It seemed to calm Wolf down immensely, and music always put the captain in a pleasant mood.

“Amazing,” Jack said when it had finished. “How on Earth did you manage that?”

“It was not a technically hard piece. I only embellished the melody some.”

“No, not that, though it was extraordinarily handsome, Stephen. I meant _him._ ”

Jack made a gesture towards the floor next to the ‘cello, and when Stephen turned, he saw Wolf hugging his knees close to himself, grinning broadly and beaming up at the doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've worked on this for so long, I think my writing style's changed from the beginning to now. I hope it's not too jarring for you guys, haha. I just wanted to thank everyone who's given kudos and left comments - you're all so kind, and your words make my day. :)  
> I'm going to try to post chapters on something of a schedule for the next few installments, at least until school starts again. You should expect another update in two weeks!  
> Thanks again, and comments and reviews are always appreciated!


	6. Chapter 6

Lucas was awakened by a horrid crashing in sickbay. He sat bolt upright, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand, and blinked in the weak sunlight. The doctor was crouched over his desk, still in his nightshirt, papers strewn everywhere. He gripped crumpled papers in his fist and shoved aside books and jars in a desperate search for something. A book dropped on his foot and he swore in some other language.

“ _¿On_ diables _és?_ ”

Oh no. _The coffee_.

Lucas tossed aside his blanket and jumped out of his cot, bare feet thumping against the deck. He hurried to shoved his shirt back into his breeches before scampering away, cursing himself. Why on earth did he think it would be fine to save getting coffee until the morning? He jumped through the doorway, nearly tripping over himself, and left the doctor to cuss and rant behind him.

Surely, the captain would have coffee. He and the doctor were friends; even as the most powerful man on the ship, he would understand why this was so important. Lucas ran through the ship, sprinting up the ladder, and was nearly out of breath when he reached the captain’s quarters.

At the sight of the marine posted outside, he stopped short with a slight stumble. He wasn’t supposed to go inside, not without permission beforehand. When he had gone to listen to the doctor’s ‘cello, there had been someone with him to grant him entrance. Lucas bit his finger and frowned. There must have been some sort of protocol to speaking with the captain, but he couldn’t call it to mind. Did he talk to the marine? Did he get someone else to go in for him?

In the middle of his deliberation, an officer joined him in the hallway. It was the first lieutenant, the one with the scar on his face, and he held his large hat under his arm. Bending over to stand below deck, he paused and tapped Lucas on the shoulder. It took a few seconds to understand what the man said: “Do you need something, lad?”

Lucas twisted his shirt nervously and pointed an unsteady finger at the captain’s door. “The captain. It’s Don Esteban. It’s - it’s urgent.”

The lieutenant raised his eyebrows. “I’ll fetch him right away.”

He ducked under the doorway, leaving the door ajar. Lucas wrung his hands and crept forward, nervously eyeing the marine, but the red-coated soldier hardly paid him any mind beyond a cursory glance. Glimpses of the conversation drifted from inside the great cabin, but the two officers spoke too fast for him to fully catch their words.

“...morning, Pullings...ask something?”

“...boy...doctor...says it’s urgent…”

A chair scraped against the floor, and the boards trembled with heavy stomping. The captain thrust himself through the doorway, his shoulders filling the frame. Lucas blinked in surprise and scuffled backward.

“What’s happened to Stephen?”

Lucas stared blankly at him, searching for words with his limited vocabulary. The captain grabbed him by the shoulders and nearly lifted him off the floor, looking him straight in the eye. Lucas swallowed, wide-eyed. This was exactly the sort of thing he didn’t want have to happen today. His mind spun, trying to remember enough English words to form a complete sentence. “ _Nada_ \- nothing! He...he’s tired?”

The captain frowned. “Tired.”

No, that wasn’t it. Lucas bit his lip. “Eh, angry? Mean? He needs, um...he needs....”

The captain released him and raised an eyebrow in skepticism. This was not how Lucas wanted to start his morning. He frowned and gestured wildly with his arms. What was the word for coffee? He glanced to the side, then looked back at the captain with a grimace. He could picture in his head; the word sat in his mouth, he could imagine it so clearly, but he could not for the life of him remember its English translation.

“Laudanum?” the captain asked. Lucas shook his head.

“No, no…” He ached to say it in Spanish - he _knew_ how to say it in Spanish - but Don Estaban told him he had to use English when addressing the captain. He stomped his foot and growled in frustration.

“Water? Stockings?”

“ _¡No! ¡Este **puto** idioma!_ ¨

The lieutenant stuck his head in the doorway, the commotion drawing his attention. His lips pressed together in barely concealed laughter.

Lucas waved his arms around in an animated gesture. “A drink! Hot! Wake up!” He pressed his hands to his stomach. He needed to think harder. “Brown powder. Put it in water. Drink in the mornings. It’s - it’s very hot.”

The captain narrowed his eyes. “...Coffee?”

“YES!” Lucas jumped and put his hands on his head. “Yes, coffee!”

The lieutenant ducked back into the captain’s cabin, squeakng laughter following from where he disappeared. The captain turned toward the door, a smile breaking across his face, and he put his hands on his hips and _tsked_ under his breath. He looked back at Lucas with a small shake of his head.

“So, the good doctor has run out of coffee, has he?”

Lucas nodded vehemently. When the captain laughed, he filled the hallway with the merry sound. Despite himself, Lucas managed a small chuckle of his own. This man wasn’t so scary when he wasn’t shouting. He seemed almost human like this, not some untouchable figure of authority.

“I’m sorry you had to witness that. The doctor isn’t quite himself without his coffee.” The captain clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking him into the wall. Lucas looked up timidly. He remembered how Don Esteban had been tearing through his desk and wondered how much the doctor’s quarters had suffered since his absence.

“Killick!” the captain shouted, the volume making Lucas wince. A grizzled, sour-looking seaman approached from inside the cabin, not even bothering to conceal his grumbling. “Give this lad here some coffee for the doctor, enough for at least five men.”

Killick disappeared back into the cabin, and the captain turned back Lucas. “Be sure to give the doctor my compliments.”

Lucas blinked in reply, just wanting to get back to Don Esteban as soon as possible. The captain ducked into his cabin, and Killick soon came out with a bag full of grounds. Lucas grabbed it wordlessly and dashed back up the stairs, catching the echoes of conversation as he ran back the way he’d come.

 “Honestly, Pullings...compose yourself, man.”

Lucas scampered across the ship, pausing to catch his breath in the doorway of the doctor’s quarters. The doctor himself now sat in his chair rummaging through his desk drawers and ranting in...some sort of language. It may have been gibberish, for all Lucas knew. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward and tapped Don Esteban on the shoulder. The doctor spun around, startled. Red showed around his eyes, his hair stuck up in all directions, and he still hadn’t shaved. Lucas started and resisted the urge to back away. As it was, he held out the bag at a stiff arm’s length.

“ _El capitán da sus saludos_ ,” he said.

The doctor looked from Kirk to his outstretched hand. He took the bag, opened it, and smelled its contents. He raised his eyebrows.

“Coffee,” he said. The wild disgruntlement disappeared from his face. “Did you get this from Jack?”

Lucas rocked back on his heels and nodded. The doctor laughed to himself, the corner of his mouth drawing up in a smile. “I did not realize you were even awake.” He looked up, eyes softening. “Thank you, Lobito.”

Lucas dropped his gaze as a rush of heat rose to his face. He turned away and smiled shyly to hide his sudden embarrassment. He had done something right. It felt rather nice, doing something right for once.

Don Esteban turned back to his desk, coffee in hand. “Now, if only I could find my mug.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

Their nightly routine began at 6 bells.

The calling of dog watch always signified a day drawing to a close, but Lucas’s real anxiety didn’t start until that double-pattern of chimes sounded on deck. He would freeze, stealing a careful glance at the doctor to see if he had noticed, but most often, he had not. After the initial dread came an optimistic hope; maybe he would forget tonight. Maybe 7 bells would come, and then 8, and then 1 again, and maybe Lucas could stay up the whole night, uninterrupted by Don Esteban’s insistence that he go to bed.

He’d spend the next half hour in bliss, listening to the doctor read from _Metamorphosis of Plants_ , completely forgetting his impending sentence. And then 7 bells struck.

Don Esteban blinked, turning his ear toward the upper decks. “Was that 7?”

Lucas shook his head, eyes wide. “No.”

“I do believe that it was.” The spectacles came off the end of his nose, and the book snapped shut with a dull thump.

Before he could open his mouth to say another word, Lucas launched himself out of his chair. He scurried out of the surgeon’s cabin and Esteban’s reach, and down the halls of the ship. Bare feet thumping against the deck, he blinked his eyes against the sudden dim lighting and nearly ran into an officer. The seaman gave a muffled cry of surprise, and he dodged past them, ducking under their arms.

“I don’t want to go to bed!”

Ignoring calls for him to come back, he circled around the officers’ pantry to make it to safety. He knew better than to run to the other end of the ship and wake the sailors sleeping there, so he dashed to the hatchway stairs to make an escape to the upper decks. He was met, unfortunately, by the watchman coming down for his rounds, and doubled back – straight into Don Esteban.

The doctor made a grab for him and came up short as Lucas dropped to his knees and rolled to the side. “Lobito!”

“No!”

Scrambling to his feet, he got two steps before someone grabbed him around the waist and hoisted him in the air. He twisted in their grip, but no amount of thrashing or cursing in Spanish would frighten the sailor into letting go. Lucas was passed off to the doctor, and the struggle continued back in the surgeon’s cabin.

“ _¡Suéltame!_ ”

He was dropped into his cot with all the ceremony of a pile of wet rough-weather clothes and held in place by a pair of scrawny arms before he could slither onto the deck. Don Esteban glared at him with eyes hard as ice.

“No, Lobito, you have to - you must stop - simply go to sleep!”

Lucas pushed his feet against the doctor’s chest and growled in reply. Further attempts were made to secure him in bed, and he swung his foot in the air, heel connecting square with the doctor’s face. They both froze; the doctor straightened, face turned away, and Lucas instantly stopped his squirming, eyes going wide in his head. As Don Esteban shifted his fiery gaze toward him, he shrunk down in his cot and swore he saw death itself.

A red welt showed at the corner of the man’s mouth, blood just starting to drip from his nose. No words were needed. Lucas swallowed. “I’ll go to sleep,” he said.

Expression never wavering, the doctor stiffly draped the covers up to the boy’s chin and leaned closer. He hadn’t yet wiped away the blood.

“Not a sound,” he whispered.

Lucas burrowed under his covers and watched the doctor extinguish the lantern hanging above and settle himself at his desk, using the light of a single candle to see his papers.

With the changing of the watch, Jack came below to speak with Stephen, entrusting the safety of the ship to the first lieutenant. He saw the small man hunched over his desk, scribbling in his barely legible print by the dim glow of a candle. His ward lay in a hammock off to the side, dozing soundly.

“I see you actually got him to sleep tonight,” he said.

“At no small effort of my own. Chasing him through the ship requires at least half a dozen hands; though, he seems to be waking less through the night, even if he refuses to willingly comply.”

Jack thought of Sophie back at Rose Cottage, and such daily routines as bedtime he missed while at sea. She never spoke of such struggles with their own children, but heaven knows there were elements of his own occupation he kept from her. If little ones truly did put up as equal a fight as Wolf, he wondered why on earth a person would want more than one.

“He looks calm enough now. Such a tempestuous creature, that one. I say, Stephen, we’re due for some tremendous fair weather the next few days. Absolute smooth sailing - at this rate, we’ll be almost to the Horn in a month’s time.”

“We’ll stop before crossing, my dear?”

The doctor looked up from his writing, and the sight of his unwiped face made Jack start in his chair. “My word, man, are you aware you have blood on your face?”

Stephen raised a hand to his nose, appearing for the first time aware of the injury. Jack handed him a spare kerchief, and he continued on about the potential stop before the Horn.

“I’ve heard tell of penguins residing as far north as Argentina, and I would much like to see some in person. Just a day or two, perhaps, nothing out of your way, where I could observe colonies on land. It would provide opportunity to bring aboard fresh water before attempting to cross. You will pardon me, for a moment.”

The child in the hammock had started to whine in his sleep as they were talking, and now his whimpers grew in volume and pitch to accompany wild turning and thrashing about. Stephen held him gently by the shoulders and coaxed him awake, speaking Spanish in low tones. The boy jerked upright and whipped his head around, searching the far corners of the cabin for something only he knew.

“¿ _Qué haces? ¡Alejarse de mí!_ _¡No me toques!”_

Moving to relight the lantern, Jack saw Stephen kneel down at eye-level, holding the boy in spite of his wrestling and the tears trailing down his cheeks.

“ _Lobito. Lobito, está bien. Soy yo._ _Es doctor Maturin._ ”

Wolf shook his head, sobbing with hysterics. He screamed in rapid-fire Spanish, too fast for Jack to follow his exact words, but he could gather well enough the scene before him without needing to know what was said. The doctor tried to calm him down, but the boy was past the point of solace, rambling over Stephen’s consolations and repeating the same phrase again and again.

“ _¡Hazlo parar! Por favor, ¡hazlo parar!_ ”

His arms latched around Stephen’s neck, and he buried his face in the doctor’s shoulder. Stephen froze, bent awkwardly with the child’s weight pulling him down.

“Jack?”

Jack moved to disentangle his friend from Wolf’s grip, but Stephen shook his head.

“Just lift him up; I cannot stand.”

With the captain’s help, Stephen rose to his feet and carried the weeping child to the chair by his desk, gathering him in his lap and patting his hair smooth. The boy still hadn’t ceased his crying, and the racket he made was enough to wake any idler on deck. The doctor whispered to him through the noise, papist prayers, given their repetitive quality. Jack began to move toward the door, but Stephen motioned for him to stay, saying all would be well in a few moments.

True to his words, the boy seemed to wear himself out in the next minute, his howling turning to weak sniffles. Jack shook his head, baffled at the doctor’s gentle manner. He’d known his friend for some years now, been under his care more times than he’d care to remember and brought back from the brink of death, but never would he have predicted this way with children he just witnessed. He had always assumed Stephen avoided them.

Wolf curled tighter around himself and pressed against the doctor. “ _Papi...Papi no es moverse-_ ”

It’s alright.” Stephen put a hand on his shoulder and shushed him gently. “You’re safe now.”

Shifting in his chair, Jack couldn’t help but feel like he was intruding. He peered at his friend. “Does this happen every night?”

“Not as regular as every night, but often enough. It had been getting better.”

Jack frowned. Wolf didn’t seem like the kind of child who would scare himself with monsters hiding in the dark. He’d obviously been born, or at least raised, in the world of the sea, and violence was no stranger to him.

“What would cause such a thing?” he asked, almost to himself.

The boy sighed, already asleep once again. Stephen looked down at him with something akin to paternal fondness, or at least, as close to paternal as he could ever manage without becoming someone else entirely. He really had become fond of his undersized assistant.

“The cruelty of men,” he said. “Can reach farther than you or I could ever know.”


End file.
